


The Secret Life of Joe Dick (or, The Big Con)

by Sage (sageness)



Category: Canadian 6 Degrees, Hard Core Logo (1996)
Genre: Canon - Movie, Community: midsummerfic, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-12
Updated: 2007-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-03 02:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sageness/pseuds/Sage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe's the man with the plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret Life of Joe Dick (or, The Big Con)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kerrbear61 in the [ midsummer2007 seekrit santa exchange](http://community.livejournal.com/midsummer2007/). Many thanks to BrynnMcK, Mergatrude, and Isiscolo for beta-reading! A small soundtrack to this story is [ available here](http://sageness.livejournal.com/979069.html).

Jumping off the stage and pissing in Seymour Stein's drink—not to mention all over the table, floor, and Stein's fucking $300 wingtips—maybe it wasn't the smartest thing Joe ever did; he gets that. But the way the fucker'd been eyeing up Billy all night—all on top of being back in New York and the goddamned fight he and Billy had been having all week—so he lost his fucking cool for a minute, so what. Didn't mean Billy had to break up the band. Throw a hissy fit, fine, but shit—_leaving_—that just wasn't fair.

Joe sulks all the way back across Canada. John drives, Pipe bitches, and Joe rants and swigs cheap whisky and drives himself bugfuck imagining how Billy might have paid the airfare to Vancouver. Maybe Festus sprung for it—Joe sure as hell hopes Festus sprung for it. It's better than thinking Billy's still in New York. It's better than thinking that maybe when Joe had his head turned, Billy bent over and turned himself into Sire's bitch.

 

* * *

 

A month after that, John tells him Billy's moved to L.A.

 

* * *

 

A couple of months later, Joe's meandering around western Canada playing dive bars, just him and his battered old acoustic. That's when, out of the blue, he sees Mary at a late night grocery in Regina. He's running in for junk food, cigarettes, and Sudafed. She's pushing a cart loaded with fruits and vegetables and she's very, very pregnant.

He stares at her across the display of fresh tomatoes. She stares back at him, first in shock, and then with something else entirely, some grave mixture of shame and dread filling her eyes. She ducks her head, letting her long curly bangs fall over her face, but it's too late. Joe's mouth falls open; it's easy math.

"Holy shit, Mary." He doesn't know what to say. He has a smartass remark for every occasion, but this—

"Don't," she says. "You aren't going to have any part of it, Joe."

Shaking his head, he forms the only clear words he can. "You're sure it's mine?"

She snorts. "Pretty damned sure."

He stares at her for a second, waiting, but she doesn't say anything else. "Okay, not to sound like a complete prick, but, how?"

A moment passes; he watches her take a deep breath before answering. "Because the doctor calculated the date of conception, and it was an exact match to that time with you when the stupid condom broke."

He swallows, realizes he's squeezing a tomato in his left fist, and lets it go. "Fuck." He looks vainly around the produce section like he might find help in a bin of asparagus. "Okay, fuck."

"I was careful, Joe. That was the only—" She shoves her hair back. It falls forward, and she yanks the clip out to refasten it. Glaring at him, she says, "Look, it's really not your problem."

"Mary—"

"No, I mean it. You didn't see me tonight." She waves her hand between them, encompassing the tomatoes, the hanging scale, and the plastic bag dispenser. "This never happened."

Joe blows out a long breath. He doesn't fucking know what to think—Mary, pregnant! Mary, always so giggly and fun. He's about to ask _Does Billy know?_ but he can't force the words out of his throat. Instead, he says, "Are you sure?"

She gives him a long look, her expression finally softening like she remembers they used to be friends, or at least friendly enough to fuck, not so long ago. She puts a hand on her belly and holds it there a moment. Then her hands are on the cart and she's pushing it away. "Goodbye, Joe," she says.

He nods once, twice, and then his mouth starts working again. "Hey!" he calls out, and she looks over her shoulder. "Good luck. And, uh, if you change your mind..." He shrugs. Not that he knows shit about being a father but he'd always liked Mary all right, and they went back a lot of years. But all she does is shake her head firmly and keep on walking.

 

* * *

 

He fucks Billy-clone after Billy-clone in seedy Vancouver clubs. He gets fucked and likes it, but he always comes biting the word "Billy" into his forearm. He knows it's fucked up, but it hurts less than wondering what Billy's doing down in sunny fucking California.

Pot brings him down, makes him useless and paranoid, which he hates. Heroin's never been a temptation—all anybody's gotta do to say no to that shit is spend three weeks on the road with Pipe. Stuff'll mess you up. He likes coke; he can do any fucking thing in the world with a noseful of blow, nosebleeds be damned. He's good. He's the man with the plan. He's Joe Dick, the man no one dares fuck with.

First time, it happens by accident. Moron dealer named Weldon tries to fuck Joe over by dumping some stolen crack on him instead of just selling Joe his usual powder. Thing is, Joe knows Weldon's supplier's a guy named Leung, and one pissed off phone call later and Weldon's busted and Joe has a nice, fat stash in reward. After that, Joe starts keeping his ear to the ground. Doesn't pull it much, since he sure as hell doesn't want a rep as a dealer's snitch; but it still beats paying for it.

The first year without Billy isn't so bad, not in hindsight. He didn't think it could get worse, but then the second year proves him as wrong as those assholes who think Pearl Jam's a punk band. Then it's mid-1993 and the economy's completely gone to shit. He hustles pool when he has to. When it's bad, he sings and plays guitar in the park or at weekend street markets when the weather doesn't suck. He plays acoustic gigs at trendy little bullshit coffeehouses like he's doing them a favor—and he is, dammit. If he were sober, he'd get his heavy equipment license and go become a lumberjack. Or sell plasma—but he isn't, so they won't take him. He panhandles change sometimes when he's too high for shame. In the autumn, he starts breaking into houses; he takes cash, jewelry, small shit he can pawn.

He never holds down a real job for long; he can't take being ordered around. But then he starts tending bar off and on—it's easy: he gets free drinks and idiots pay him to talk them shitfaced. He doesn't care anymore about working in dives he used to play. Or even working for the man and all that shit he used to rail on about. Too many nights without heat, too many weeks of living on ramen take a toll on a guy's principles. And maybe he's just fucking tired.

 

* * *

 

Summer of '95 marks four full years since the band broke up. Joe stands in the corner store reading the Lollapalooza edition of Rolling Stone because some asswipe friend of a friend of a friend mentioned that Billy was subbing in with Jenifur. There's a small photo in the spread mostly showing the singer chick and a lot of leg, but Joe can see the back of Billy's head in the background. Spiky hair and sweat, he hasn't changed a bit.

If there hadn't been a photo...but there is, so Joe forks over an all-too-precious twenty for the magazine and a carton of cigs.

 

* * *

 

Three in the morning, he gets home—a rat-hole duplex he shares with two dayshift guys he never sees. He turns on the TV and The Blues Brothers is on. Jake is saying, "We're getting the band back together," and a minute later Aretha Franklin is belting out, "You better think (think!) about what you're trying to do to me!" And he sprawls out on the couch drinking beer after beer, trying to drown the ache in his chest. He watches it for the umpteenth time, all the way through the longest car chase in movie history, and falls asleep to Jake and Elwood Blues singing "Everybody Needs Somebody to Love" to the hungry, hungry crowd.

The next afternoon he wakes up with a plan.

 

* * *

 

Some time back, Joe found out from John's girlfriend Celine that Mary'd gotten hitched. Joe's next gig in Regina, it's nothing to find her—and the guy she married. Turns out he's some big time attorney listed right there in the phonebook; it's a full-page ad, all the fat cat lawyers smiling smarmily at the camera. Fucking perfect.

Joe hangs out on the bus bench outside the downtown office tower, watching the lunch crowd go in and out the revolving doors. After a while, he sees a guy with a familiar face exit the building; Joe gets to his feet. "Evan." Extending a hand, Joe flashes a smile to soothe the man's alarm and leads him up the sidewalk.

 

* * *

 

"We're going to do a thing," he tells Bucky on the phone a few days later. "It'll be cool as shit."

"I'm tired, Joe." And Bucky sounds tired, too. Sounds too tired to care, sounds like all the shit he used to pull finally caught up with him...and wouldn't that serve him right.

"Just go along with it," Joe says easily.

"And exactly what do I get out of this thing you're doing?" Petulant, holier than thou, cynical. It's been a long time since Joe was a star struck kid falling to his knees for the great Bucky Haight. He has a vague memory of what Bucky's balls tasted like after peeling down his leather pants. He remembers gagging on a rain of whisky as Bucky's cock shoved inside.

Joe had been a naive little fuck back then. But he remembers how crazy it made Billy to find Bucky in Joe's kitchen. He remembers the glint of jealousy in Billy's eyes like the first bright jolt of orgasm.

Joe says, "It'll be worth your while, I promise."

 

* * *

 

Laura Cromartie doesn't know him from Adam but remembers ads for Hard Core Logo shows in the free press years ago, and that's good enough for her. Joe dazzles her with the list of bands he wants to book. She nods and smiles like she's ever heard of any of them; but she agrees to foot the publicity bill, and that's all that matters.

Joe sits back, sucking down a fresh cigarette. He almost can't believe it's this easy.

 

* * *

 

He calls Billy, gets his machine. He leaves messages daily for a week. At the end of the week, he listens to, "I can't come to the phone right now; I'm eating corn chips and masturbating," for the tenth teeth-grinding time. He's on the brink of growling, "Quit beating off and pick up the goddamned phone, Billiam," when Billy picks up.

"Yeah," he says.

"Out of corn chips?"

Billy snorts a laugh. "Joe."

"Been trying to reach you."

"Yeah, been busy." Joe draws in a breath, about to lay into him for being too fucking L.A. to call a guy back, but Billy says, "Fuck, car's here. Your thing's the 27th?"

"At the Commodore."

"Yeah, okay, I'll be there."

Then the line's dead and Joe's blinking at the phone in his hand wondering what car is there, a little pissed he didn't get the chance to say anything. But Billy's coming. Four years gone and Billy's coming.

 

* * *

 

There's a thin FedEx envelope waiting on his desk at the cramped Rock Against Guns office, which is a tiny room lent to them by a storefront church next to a great little Thai place and a video store. When he sees the envelope, Joe's heart starts to race; he can't believe it's right out there in front of everybody. "Contracts," he says flippantly to Laura. "I'll go through them tonight." Then he makes some more phone calls to band managers, Bruce Mc-fucking-Donald, and another three potential local sponsors. Fundraisers shouldn't cost so goddamned much to run.

Then he says fuck it, tucks the FedEx packet under his arm, and goes home.

Inside, there's a birth certificate claiming a boy named Joseph Malone was born in Buffalo, New York in the spring of 1962. There's a matching social security card. And there's a sheet of paper with a list of instructions, an Edmonton phone number, the name of a Cayman Islands bank, and an account number on it. Holding the paper in his hands, something starts to ache in Joe's chest: Evan loves his little girl _this_ much, enough to make sure Joe stays out of her life forever.

Joe takes a long breath, then lights a cigarette and tells himself the big shot lawyer can afford it.

 

* * *

 

Joe pulls Billy away from the camera, away from the Flash faggots, manhandles him all the way through the green room, back to the private washroom at the back of the VIP dressing room.

Joe shoves Billy back against the sink and locks the door. Billy just stands there, eyebrow raised in a dare, hands planted on the porcelain to either side of his hips. "You're looking good," Joe says, before he can stop himself.

"It's that good old California tap water," Billy deadpans. Joe doesn't take the bait and Billy's eyes sharpen. Joe can see what he's about to bring up and he can't let him, not yet. He steps forward, pinning Billy's hips to the sink. He rubs his hands up Billy's sweat-soaked shirt, petting him slowly from waist to collarbone. "Joe," Billy murmurs, and it's as much mingled warning and plea as it ever was. Joe leans forward for the kiss he's waited four years and four and a half months for, and it's just as good as he knew it would be. Billy tastes like cigarettes, like always; and Joe's had too much to drink tonight to get it up, but Billy's stiffening against him and, Christ, Joe is really fucking okay with that.

Joe breaks the kiss. "I'm going to blow you."

"Joe, this isn't—"

Joe's knees are already on the cracked linoleum and his hands are at work on Billy's jeans. "Don't argue with a fucking blowjob," he tells Billy's crotch. Then he has Billy's dick in his mouth and Billy shuts the hell up.

He's missed this more than he knew. He's missed the way Billy smells and tastes. He's missed the length and shape of this cock filling his mouth—this cock, Billy. Billy's quiet as he ever was as Joe sucks and bobs and gets high off the not-quite-familiar taste of him. It's a kick that he still remembers the warning tremors. When Billy comes, Joe swallows like he's guzzling another bottle down and he can't get enough. He sucks 'til Billy pushes him off, wincing, and Joe has to swipe his tongue over his slit one last time in retaliation.

"You taste different," he says.

Billy grunts and slumps against the sink, looking more fuckable than ever. And looking like he's missed this, too. Joe stands up smiling, half-dizzy with triumph and wishing he could get hard enough to get a hand-job in return. Later, he decides, once he gets Billy to say yes. He lights two cigarettes.

Billy pulls himself back together, tucks himself away, and takes his smoke from Joe. "I can't believe you're pulling this shit. Does Bucky know?"

Joe grins, spreading his arms. "It's going to be epic, man, the stuff of legend—just wait."

Billy rolls his eyes and eases up to sit on the edge of the sink. "What's my cut?"

"Fifteen percent."

"Fifteen percent of what, the benefit take? That's bullshit!" Billy gets his feet under him and shoves Joe back against the wall.

"Hey, chill out. There's only so much to go around." Billy starts hammering a knuckle hard against Joe's chest, up high, where it hurts. Joe bats Billy's arm down, hard. "Fuck you, like you don't have a sweet little gig in L.A. to go back to"

Billy glares, makes a fist like he's going to throw a punch, but finally steps back. "Fine, whatever. But you fucking owe me, and don't forget it." Two steps back to the sink, he says, "Right, so how's it work?"

Joe follows, kisses him lightly at first, then deeper, feeling the scratch of stubble on his chin and waiting for Billy's arms to wrap taut around him. He breathes in, shivering with the clash of scent memory against reality. Something in his gut tells him Billy doesn't need to know about Mary, so Joe kisses Billy again while he figures out the angle. A minute later he murmurs, "It's like this."

 

* * *

 

It takes Mulligan a few days to get the tour set up. Joe drops over fourteen grand of the benefit take on discount film stock to cover the rest of what Bruce claims to need. Then Bruce drives Joe, Billy, Pipe, and John all over Vancouver to be interviewed. They put on a good show; Joe's got Bruce in the bag, right where he wants him.

 

* * *

 

Billy stays at Joe's place and they fuck like they're eighteen and invincible again, with Billy pinning him down with a hand between his shoulder blades, moving slow and sharp and steady, making Joe give it up and give it up and give it up. Secretly, he wishes there was more time before the tour because he's pretty sure nothing ever felt this good.

 

* * *

 

Backstage at Regina, Mary comes up out of nowhere, and Joe nearly shits himself thinking he's been made. But no. She's all leopard print, frizzy hair, same old beautiful smile and warm hug. Compliments, nostalgia. No hint of the last words they'd said to each other when she was eight months pregnant and he was a fucking mess.  
Evan shakes his hand like they've never met. Good thing, too, and, oh shit, the kid. Billie—and her name's got to be Mary's joke on Joe, on Billy, on them both—is the spitting fucking image of Joe's mom at that age; he remembers enough family photos to be sure. Plus, Billie doesn't look a thing like Mary, or Billy, for that matter. Joe wonders if anyone's sober enough to notice he and the kid have the same eyes.

Joe sneaks a glance at Evan, but he isn't giving anything away. Just pumping out a fish-out-of-water vibe, with a heavy dose of concerned dad wishing his wife would hurry the fuck up with her trip down memory lane and let them get the hell out of there.

Looking back to Billie, Joe thinks, _That's my kid_. He watches Bruce filming her with Pipe and the sandwich. He's never knocked anyone else up before or since, at least not as far as he knows. Then he realizes he's never going to see her again.

Evan swings back into view, pouring a cup of Sprite from the drinks table to share with Billie. Joe wonders how much Evan's clothes cost; he's got top-of-the-line hiking boots and Billie's clothes look kind of pricey. Standing in the corner, Joe downs his bottle of water, watching. The kid looks happy, and she'll never want for anything.

Joe goes to find the manager to settle accounts.

 

* * *

 

In the diner in Regina that night, Joe wonders if he's pushed it too far. He can feel the con wheeling almost out of his hands. Mary showing up and knocking everyone for a loop, and fucking Ed Festus playing Billy like a yo-yo. It's no surprise Billy's a wreck, but Joe can't talk to him with the damned camera crew there.

"Did you ever sleep with Mary?" Billy asks, and Joe scrambles. He's caught, he's so fucking caught. But what does Billy care, he wonders. He goes with near-honesty, and then watches Billy point to the camera as if to say, 'See? The kid could be anyone's.' Joe feels like he's dodged a bullet and picks up the hookers to celebrate. He wants to watch Billy jerk off while they blow him and sixty-nine each other.

When the girls go, he crawls over Billy's body and kisses him deep. He's still half-panicked, but he's hoping the afterglow is hiding it. "Do me a favor," he says. "In the morning, tell the guys the girls fucked off with our cash, okay?"

Billy's lips curl in a frown. "What? Why?"

"Don't worry about it."

Anger flashes in Billy's eyes as he shoves him off. "Don't tell me what not to worry about. What's wrong with the money?"

Fuck, so much for afterglow. Joe lights a cigarette and leans against the wall glaring at Billy. Billy glares back. Joe exhales smoke, fights off a nervous tick in his right eyelid, and says, "Okay, shit, look. Bucky's got a share, you've got a share, I've got a share, and there are certain expenses—"

Billy kicks his knee. "Cut the bullshit, Joe."

" 'Cut the bullshit.' Thanks a lot." Joe rolls off the bed and grabs a cup of water from the washroom. He slams three cups and comes back, still pissed. "You don't have any fucking idea what's going on, Bill."

"Oh yeah? Well, how about you enlighten me."

Joe paces back and forth, cursing himself for the slip and trying to figure a way out of it. Finally, he says, "Look, what are you doing after Deadmonton? You're going back to Hollywood, right? Bet you've already got your ticket."

Billy sneers, tilts his head. "Yeah? So what?"

"So what do you think I'm doing, eh?" Billy doesn't say anything. "No, I mean it," Joe presses. "Answer me."

Billy shrugs. "Go back to whatever you were doing before? I don't know."

Joe snorts a laugh and nods, coming to rest on the low dresser across from the second bed. "You have no fucking idea, Bill."

Billy gets up. They're both naked, but Billy's golden and gorgeous and Joe feels like an albino whale. "What's going on?" Billy asks, softly, right up in Joe's face.

Billy's eyes are bright and warm, and for a minute, Joe can't think. He's snowed under—same as twenty years before when they were kids and Joe couldn't take his eyes off him. He swallows around a lump in his throat, finally mumbling, "I got a plan, okay? I'm starting over."

Billy shakes his head, slow and doubtful. "The cops are going to be—"

"It'll be fine."

"Joe—"

"Look, trust me," he says, as calm and reasonably as he can. "It'll be better if you don't know, in case they question you later."

Billy stares, hard. Seconds tick by, and Joe can practically see the light bulb click on in Billy's head. Billy takes two steps back. "No fucking way."

"Billy—"

"A twenty grand take—you can't run off to Brazil or whatever on your share—"

Joe gets up and flops onto Billy's bed with a sigh. "Don't worry about it."

Billy follows him to the bed, shoves him over with his hip, and straddles him. "Can't stop me."

"Fuck," Joe groans. "Look, it's no big deal."

Billy's eyebrows go up. "I could walk right now and leave you here."

Joe snorts. "You wouldn't."

"Try me." Billy's thighs clamp tight around Joe's hips, pinning him there. "Tell me the rest of it or I'm done, I'm out of here. You can finish the tour as a three-piece."

Billy's dick is lying soft in the nest of Joe's pubic hair, so Joe wraps his hand around it and gives it a good pull. No way can Billy get hard again, but it still feels nice in Joe's hand. He glances up. Billy still looks dead serious, and Joe can't remember what he thought he had to lose. He squeezes Billy's cock harder. "Fine," he says. "You're right that Mary's kid isn't yours—" Billy sits back hard on Joe's thighs. His mouth opens a couple of times, but nothing comes out. Joe pushes on. "Her husband, Evan—"

"You're blackmailing him?" There's a mix of awe and disbelief on Billy's face.

Joe scowls. "It's a load more than I thought he'd go for, but I guess he's willing to do what it takes to keep me away."

"Jesus Christ."

Joe lets go of Billy's dick. "Mary doesn't know."

Billy blinks at that, then nods. "She'd kill you," he says as he sprawls out next to Joe. Joe kills the light and tries not to worry about the parts of the plan Billy still doesn't know about.

In the morning, Billy's already dressed when he says, "So what do I tell the cops when this is all over?"

Joe rubs sleep out of his eyes. He only got a couple of jittery hours, and now he's got to drive to fucking Winnipeg. "Say I was in over my head. Say I didn't have shit left to go back to." He half-shrugs and lets out an enormous yawn. "Say you were leaving, and I was a broken-hearted sap and couldn't go on...with all this shit," he says, catching himself. "The tour, I mean. Whatever."

Billy slaps the side of his head. "Dink."

Joe huffs a laugh.

"Get up, I'm going to the bank machine so we can get out of here."

Joe grabs Billy's hand and bites the base of his thumb. "Thanks."

 

* * *

 

"Fuck you!" Billy shouts, and glares out into the sunrise. Joe doesn't let up, even though he probably ought to. Pipe and John, being out of the loop, are making it ten times worse. Ed Festus has his fucking hand in, yanking Billy's chain. Mulligan not calling about the Winnipeg gig seriously blows—they're burning through their advance money fast, and things are seriously fucked without the Winnipeg door-share. And Bruce and his crew are dumping more fuel on the fire, too; it's almost cute the way they think Joe's clueless about Billy's deal with Jenifur: as if Billy hasn't been in L.A. for four fucking years already, working the studio system and quietly charming every goddamned mark he meets.

But Joe plays along. Bruce needs the documentary to have a dramatic arc, and better this than John going completely schizoid onscreen, right?

Billy drinking himself stupid makes it easier for Joe to let up on the bottle. It makes Billy soft and pliable as Joe eases into him, groaning low in his throat. "Do it," Billy says, and Joe does. He doesn't know how long it's going to be before he'll get to again.

"After this is over..." he says.

"Shut the fuck up," Billy says, arching back. Joe wants to argue, but Billy grunts out, "Don't—not 'til it's done." Biting his lip, Joe thrusts in and doesn't argue.

 

* * *

 

Bucky comes out onto his porch on his totally intact two legs and Pipe starts to giggle like a little kid. Bruce catches on, and Joe scuffs the dirt with his boot. Billy glares on cue and stomps around for the camera. John grins like a loon. Joe wonders if John would flash the same demented grin at a train wreck.

Bucky wasn't expecting a film crew. He's caught out, like a deer in the headlights, before turning on his heel and heading back inside to regroup.

In typical Bucky style, he turns it into a carnival of the weird, hamming it up for the camera and taking Joe down his own memory lane against his will, the fucker. Still, when he calls Bruce 'Bryce', Joe could almost kiss him.

Later, when they're alone in Bucky's bedroom and the guys are outside with Naomi throwing the bonfire together, Bucky says, "So this is your idea of payback, Joe?"

Joe extracts a dirty gray gym sock from the depths of his coat and tosses it at Bucky. Inside is a brown roll of hundreds. Bucky counts it and sniffs.

Joe glares at him, remembering back twelve years to a dingy New York apartment with disgusting carpet, a coffee table full of speed and coke and cigarettes. Joe awed, stupid, and horny and nobody—nobody—had ever made him truth-blind like that, before or since.

"Fine," Bucky says, finally.

"Good." Joe scratches his head, has the absurd thought that he needs to trim up the Mohawk before Deadmonton.

"All right," Bucky agrees, tucking the money away. "Let's go have a party."

 

* * *

 

The day after, at the second hungover piss-stop they make, Billy pulls Joe around the side of the building and says, "Hey, so, answer me this: What the fuck are you going to do afterwards? You really think you can just lie low for the rest of your life?"

Joe shivers in the November wind. He's got tremors from his morning snort of coke, too, but mostly it's the freezing air. He shrugs. "Whatever it takes."

Billy shakes his head. "You spend over half your life doing music, Joe—"

Joe stares at his boots. Now isn't the time for a rehash of Billy breaking up the band. Now isn't the time to let Billy in on how Joe's spent the last four years. Giving the crowds shit used to be fun, but now it's just an old, empty habit, and Billy's standing there smoking against the cold, staring at him, waiting.

"I don't know, all right?" He takes off his baseball cap and scratches at his Mohawk. "It doesn't matter yet, and when it does, I'll find something."

Billy's sucking on his bottom lip like he does when he's worried, but Pipe and John are scuttling out of the little store with a tall sack of food. Joe takes the cue and starts walking.

Behind him, Billy calls, "Joe!"

He stops and turns around. They stare at each other for a long moment, their breath gusting white in the space between them. Finally, Billy takes a couple of steps to catch up, four years of resentment sheening his eyes. "Don't even think about fucking me over again." Billy points at him with a long finger. "If you manage to pull this con off, fine-great-whatever, but—"

"Jesus, will you chill out?" Joe tosses the butt of his cigarette into the gravel and burrows deeper into his coat. "I'm not going to fuck you over. You keep a lid on this and we call it even, all right?"

Billy takes a last long drag and tosses his butt. "All right," he says on the exhale, and then they're both stomping their way back to the van.

 

* * *

 

Saturday at noon, Joe gets up, stumbles down to the band house kitchen, and brews some coffee. They've put on a good show. Bruce and his crew don't suspect a thing. No one else is up yet, so Joe downs some caffeine and dials the number Evan gave him in the FedEx packet. "Are we still on for tonight?" Joe asks the guy on the other end. The guy says yes, explains briefly that they're a three-man team: a lookout, an EMT, and the ambulance driver. The lookout will give the signal for the ambulance to come.

"You have a blood pack and everything?" the guy says.

Joe says, "Yeah, it's covered." He's been carrying the plug-barreled revolver and the green-capped blank bullets that go with it in the spare-string compartment of his beat-up guitar case. He knows how to fall at a bad angle for the camera, how to fire away from his head, all too fast for the eye to follow. He's had plenty of time to practice.

 

* * *

 

John's fucking lost it and Pipe's glaring at everybody with so much hurt and betrayal on his face that Joe wants to beat the shit out of _him_ instead of Billy. Bruce's got a gloat that deserves to get smashed into a cement wall, but it would be fucking stupid at this point.

Outside, Joe walks down the sidewalk. The guy who has to be the lookout is perched against the building, watching everything, chain-smoking. Joe walks past him, sees the nod from the corner of his eye, and pauses. The blood tube is hidden in his coat's left collar and the gooey blood sponge for the bullet hole is concealed on his right shoulder. If all goes to plan, it'll happen too fast for anyone to see. Bystanders will think they're shooting a movie. He takes a breath of the chill night air. It'll work. It'll fly. He'll get free of this shithole that's swallowed his life. In his coat, the new identity is tucked into the lining like a promise. Joe takes another drink, swallows hard, and turns back, deliberate desperation writ large on his face.

He's past the point of no return now. Out with a bang. Rock 'n roll history. Feeding the legend. He takes a breath. Right.

"What is it? One more shot," he says, feeling dead sober, "and salut?"

 

* * *

 

The lookout kneels over him while Bruce is puking and Danny and Joe the Sound Guy are looking for a phone. Joe cracks an eyelid, sees it's him pulling the fake gun from his grip, and goes back to playing dead. The ambulance arrives in record time, loads Joe in, and drives off with sirens blaring. With any luck, Billy's already back at the band house packing to catch the first flight south.

Joe strips in the ambulance, and the EMT helps clean up both the real and fake blood. There's a new set of clothes for him, complete with an ugly ass wig long enough to hide his ears and some of the damage from Billy's fists. He puts the new Joe Malone's identity into his new clothes; he puts his rings and earrings in an envelope addressed to Boisy Residence, Los Angeles. He hears the ambulance driver on the radio. Somehow, they're faking a DOA; Joe doesn't ask.

When they pull over, the EMT hands him a set of car keys. "The red Nissan outside—papers are in the glove compartment. Don't tell me where you're headed, but you ought to hole up somewhere and let your hair grow in. Easier than living with a rug on your head."

"Yeah, I guess so." Joe looks down at himself. He's wearing brown boots, flannel-lined chinos, a button-down shirt, a green sweater, and a tan coat. He looks like some middle management asswipe at Petro-Canada. It'll work.

The EMT checks his watch. He dumps Joe's old clothes into a garbage bag, puts the envelope of rings into a duffle, and swings open the ambulance's back door. "Thanks," says Joe. The EMT nods, and Joe hops down. Before the ambulance can pull away, he starts the car, the door still open. He doesn't think Evan's the kind to go in for a car bomb—he could've had Joe killed fifty times by now, after all—but if Joe's going to die now, then he's sure as hell not going alone.

Nothing blows up. On the passenger seat, there's a new pack of Camels, a road atlas of southern Canada and the States, a fat yellow envelope of travel money, and a soon-to-expire Montana driver's license with an old, pre-Mohawk picture of him laminated inside. On the floor is a leather carryall with more clothes and a shaving kit. A handful of cassettes are in the center console: Goo Goo Dolls, Oasis, U2—generic commercial crap a middle management asswipe would shell out for. Joe feels a little floored; it looks like Evan, or the guys he hired, went all out.

Lighting up the first cigarette from the new pack, Joe gets to the intersection and heads toward the highway. Smoke fills his lungs and starts working its magic. He accelerates up the onramp and breathes out. Billie's going to be just fine...and Joe's glad. Even if they never tell her who her real dad is, he's glad.

 

* * *

 

It's the end of January when Joe shows up on Billy's doorstep. Joe's forty pounds lighter; his ears, nose, and eyebrows have a different shape; his hair's grown back; and he's dressed in plain blue jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt.

Billy does a double take, and then just stands in the doorway staring. "Jesus."

For a minute they stand there, looking their fill: Billy's wearing jeans and a frayed plaid shirt, and he's looking a little worn around the edges, a little tired and a lot surprised. Then, as Joe watches, the surprise fades to relief and aggravation and, oh yeah, hunger.

Joe leans on the doorframe, licks his lips, and lets Billy see the spark in his eye. "So, what," he says, "do I not even get a hug?" A second later Billy's arms wrap around him, an unyielding circle of muscle nearly cutting off Joe's breath. It's been months. It's been—

"Asshole," Billy says against the side of his head, "you could've fucking called."

Joe holds on, eyes shut tight, lost in the feel of Billy against him. "Couldn't," he answers finally. "They had to rule me dead and close the case."

Billy takes a step back and coughs into his fist, eyeing him again, from head to toe. "You pulled a Dillinger."

Joe tilts his head and tries not to blush. "It seemed like a good idea." Joe rubs a hand down his newly flat stomach.

Billy stares some more, eyes lingering over the bulge in the front of Joe's pants, and then looks up with a leer. "Huh."

Joe snorts and steps back into Billy's space, pulling him close and burying his nose in Billy's neck. He smells the same as ever—cigarette smoke and essence of Billy—and he tastes the same, too. Joe nips his way over from Billy's neck to his jaw, then finds his mouth, and they're kissing hello, finally—hello and I fucking missed you and god, yes and _finally_.


End file.
